


tell me that you mean it (i want it all or not at all)

by Butterfly



Series: go on as three [3]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alice makes an appearance in the very beginning of the fic but isn't there long enough to tag tbh, Kink Negotiation, Multi, Podfic Available, Relationship Negotiation, and some off-hand references to Plot having happened off-screen, conversations about consent, mentions of marrying people for political reasons, this fic features:, would land somewhere early in s2 plotline-wise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 16:32:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18920833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butterfly/pseuds/Butterfly
Summary: Quentin isn't sure that 'very nice' appears anywhere on the list of things he's attracted to in a person. Which is probably another sign something's wrong with him.





	tell me that you mean it (i want it all or not at all)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Kingdom Fall" by Claire Wyndham.

When Quentin runs into Alice, after the Beast – after Martin – is dead and things are finally calming down in Fillory, he _literally_ runs into her and they both nearly end up crashing to the ground. The books he's carting off to read in his room definitely land all over the castle floor in a muddled heap.

“Oh, shit, sorry- sorry.” Quentin tries to squat down to pick up the books and brush off Alice's coat at the same time, which just means he fails at both which is... great and not embarrassing at all. “Um. How's... how are things going with Fen?” Alice's new wife is, apparently, also a member of the Fillorians United movement that hates the Children of Earth, which is probably making their marriage even more awkward.

Alice sighs and actually slumps a little, which is... okay, that's serious. “Not well, thanks for asking.” Her tone doesn't invite conversation, but Quentin kinda feels like he'd be an asshole if he didn't ask, so-

“Um. Is there anything- would it help to talk...?”

“You know things about Fillory, right?” She stares at him intensely. Even more so than usual, since she lost her glasses around the time she almost became a niffin and they haven't been back to Earth yet to pick up her spare pair. “You read all the books when you were a kid, I remember you telling me that.” That hadn't been _exactly_ what he'd told her, but apparently it had been what she'd heard. He gives her a non-committal nod. “Did _you_ know that reigning monarchs could have both a husband and a wife?”

Quentin, who has had many daydreams over the years about exactly that subject, kinda makes a strangled noise in his throat before he manages to say, “Uh. Yeah? I guess I did? It's just an off-hand mention in the third book, because none of the Chatwins wanted- but yeah. Why do you... um.” He hopes that she isn't about to-

“Because Fen is- well, we can't have children together, so she's suggesting that I find a- a husband. So that I can- you know, I don't even _want_ children!” Alice's tone gets increasingly distressed as she goes on, so Quentin pats her on the shoulder, dropping two books in the process. Her gaze drops down to his hand and gets thoughtful, and he hastily pulls away. “Fen really wants them, though, for the sake of stability. So, I was thinking, who do I know that I would enjoy having sex with and who would also probably make a good father.” She smiles winsomely at him, and it's actually very charming. And Fen is gorgeous too, so under different circumstances, he would probably feel excited and tempted right now. Rather than what he _actually_ feels, which is kind of nauseous. “And I thought of Brakebills South, you know? When we were foxes and- and when we were human, too. It was- it was really good. I still think it was the right idea not to start anything afterwards, because we weren't ourselves for most of it, but now that it's been a while, maybe we could try again. Just us.” She pauses, then adds, sounding a little guilty, “And Fen.”

“I'm flattered,” Quentin says, which is true, but- “I'm not really in a place right now to- uh, start a relationship.”

Alice stares at him, perplexed, then her expression clears and she says, relieved, “I'm moving too fast, aren't I? We should probably try dating first before I rush into proposing. Sorry, I forget sometimes that human-you isn't as bold as fox-you.” Probably because she's been avoiding human-him as much as possible ever since she turned him down.

The thing is, Quentin doesn't really have a good reason for saying no. He isn't _dating_ Eliot and Margo. It was just one wild night – and morning – and Margo implying that it was going to happen again. But it hasn't yet. And he's not sure if that's a lack of opportunity or just that the two of them realized that they can do a lot better than Quentin if they're looking for... for another friend-with-benefits. He's clumsy and anxious and he has a sneaking suspicion that – when he isn't shapechanged into a fox – he might not be too hot at sex either. He's certainly not experienced or- or inventive. They've probably realized that by now. So, he should accept Alice's offer. That's the smart choice.

“It's just not a great time,” he says instead, vaguely and inanely.

“Is it- is it because of Fen?” Alice asks, and she's resting her hand on his forearm and her voice is filled with an odd mix of protectiveness and concern. “She's not- she's not a selfish or a jealous person. Not like my- anyway, I think it might work out.” She doesn't look like she believes her own words, which raises several questions for Quentin that he's probably going to ignore because it is not – in any conceivable way – his business. “She's actually very nice.”

Quentin isn't sure that 'very nice' appears anywhere on the list of things he's attracted to in a person. Which is probably another sign something's wrong with him.

For now, he mumbles a half-assed excuse, clutches his remaining books to his chest, and escapes before Alice can ask him again. He means to go to his own room, which is cozy and up a tower and has several empty bookcases that he's been meaning to fill.

He ends up in Eliot's room instead, which is larger and has a plush, welcoming bed and only one single shelf suitable for books. Thankfully, no one else is around, so Quentin dumps his books on the lonely shelf and tries to convince himself to leave before Eliot does come back.

An hour later, Quentin is still there, organizing the books he'd brought in, for the sixth time. The first time, he'd sorted by author, but then the sizing had- had bothered him, so he'd changed to height. Then he'd gone with color, and then by author again but their first name this time. He's just finished ordering them by his best guess at where they would fit in the Dewey Decimal system, when he realizes chronological order by when they were written is better, so he starts to re-arrange them again and- and that's when Eliot and Margo show up, arm-in-arm, and laughing about- about something clever probably.

Eliot spots him first and says, delighted, “Well, if it isn't darling young King Quentin.”

Margo presses her whole body, it seems, against Eliot's arm and coos, “Our little protégé.”

“I'm, like, a year younger than you,” Quentin points out, but not very forcefully. Eliot and Margo seem so genuinely pleased to see him that it knocks hard against his earlier doubts. “Um. I was just- we finally have a moment to breathe, you know?” He shifts from foot to foot, stilling when he sees Margo's eyes narrow and focus on him. “So. Something weird, I guess, just happened-” and, fuck, he was babbling now and nothing was stopping him. “Alice asked me to marry her. For heirs to the throne, which is, just-” he can feel his own soul leaving his body to stare down at himself in horror from up above as he just. Keeps talking. “-so ridiculous. I mean, Alice doesn't even want kids, she said, so this would all be more of the weird political games that got her married to Fen in the first place-” and saying that makes him remember, with a flush, how he'd burst out in the middle of negotiations to say that Eliot couldn't possibly marry Fen, and when he'd stalled out on _why_ , Margo had stepped in with a truly impressive line of bullshit that had made everyone nod and ended up with Alice volunteering to... “Um. Fillory has just been- stranger than expected.”

Eliot and Margo aren't smiling anymore. They look- oddly serious, especially Eliot, who is patting Margo's hand repetitively. They exchange a look that Quentin readily admits he is not capable of reading on any level, and then they separate, each circling around him. It has- the air has the same kind of odd tension that he remembers feeling that morning after, when Margo had told him to kiss her, but- but he hasn't _done_ anything- anything sexy or whatever.

“So, let me get this straight,” Margo says, running her hand along his shoulders and back. Her voice is- lower than normal, with a kind of rasp to it, and her fingers feel warm even through his shirt. “Our lovely Queen Alice asked for your hand in marriage and you came to hide out in El's room?” She grins past him towards-

“All flustered and worried and needing to tell us about it,” Eliot says, picking up the thread of conversation. Quentin feels- Eliot takes Quentin's crown off, ruffles his hair, tosses the crown over to Margo. She spins away to place it – carefully – on the shelf next to the books. Eliot's hand slides down to cup the back of Quentin's neck, and he finds himself pulled up on his toes for a kiss that- that-

Quentin burns shameful and hot, his body rocking up into Eliot's touch, mouth opening eagerly to invite him in, feeling weak and soft and _yes, please,_ so incredibly relieved this is still something Eliot wants.

Margo presses against his back, her hand creeping under his shirt to stroke along his stomach, slide inside his jeans. She tugs at buttons and yanks at zippers and pulls at fabric, and Eliot kisses him in fits and starts, a strong guiding hand on the back of his neck, leading him- leading him somewhere. Until Quentin's legs bump against Eliot's bed and he's pushed back to sit down and- and he realizes, to his surprise, that he doesn't have any clothes on anymore.

“Oh,” he says, to fill the silence. Eliot and Margo are magnificent and regal in the Fillorian finery they'd somehow managed to get created and tailored already and he was naked, and that was- that was-

“Did our boy just discover a new kink?” Margo's voice purrs against his ear. “You want us to stay all glammed up while you're exposed for us?”

That thought is- a lot, and he has to just stay there for a moment to process it. Eliot kneels down next to the bed, rests his head on Quentin's leg and grins up at him playfully. Margo leans closer to Quentin, running her purple polished fingernails backwards along the hair on his arm, and her own smile is a little darker and more wicked.

“We should talk about ground rules,” Eliot says, his hand wrapping warm around Quentin's ankle. “But I can go ahead and blow you first, if you want?”

The pause hangs in the air for long enough to become uncomfortable before Quentin realizes-

“Um. Yeah. That would be. Nice.”

And Eliot – exquisitely dressed Eliot with his elegantly tousled hair and shining crown – slides in between Quentin's knees and puts his mouth on Quentin's dick. His hands hover above Eliot's shoulders, agonized, because he wants to touch so fucking badly but he likes- he _likes_ how cool and collected Eliot is right now. He doesn't- he doesn't want to rumple Eliot's clothes or muss up his curls.

One delicate finger touches his chin lightly and he turns his head towards Margo. She looks... sympathetic, maybe amused in a way that makes his gut twist a little. “Put your hands on the bed and grab the sheets,” she suggests and her smile widens when he does. “So, Q honey, walk us through what's going on in your head right now. You like it, but tell us why. What's your favorite thing about El right now?”

And now he has to- to think about it, try to break down the mingled hot _wet_ good into something coherent. “His- uh. His tongue. It's- he's-” When he says it, he can feel a pleased chuckle inside Eliot's mouth and throat and he wants to touch but he also wants- he wants- “I can't touch him,” Quentin blurts out and he can feel the heat washing over his face but Margo doesn't look- look surprised or judgmental or any of the other things he'd been dreading. It gives him a rush of courage and he adds, “You two are- are always, um. Pretty. Fancy, I guess. You must spend- uh- a lot of time. On getting ready. But it's- it's- it's- you look good.”

Margo leans over and presses her perfectly made-up lips against his mouth, and he shudders and opens up to her but she- she keeps it shallow, almost chaste if it weren't- weren't for everything else. She pulls away and says, “Thank you, Quentin,” with a sincerity he wasn't expecting. She tucks his hair behind his ear, gentle. “Now, I know it's tough to concentrate right now, but I'd like you to pay attention.”

He tries to- to focus on her words but it's hard – it's _difficult_ – with Eliot's mouth and Eliot's hands and, fuck, the back of Eliot's throat all trying to distract him. But he tries.

“You _know_ what you want – you fucking glow when you're getting what you want, but it's hard to talk about it.” Her voice is soft, almost conspiratorial. “Easier to just throw yourself out there and hope someone catches you.” He nods, shaky, but he's not entirely sure what he's agreeing with. Margo's fingernails trail down his throat, his chest, the light pressure a threat of potential pain that never materializes. He feels tight all over, like he'll fly into a million pieces if Eliot and Margo don't hold him together. “Well, guess what, sweetheart? You are well and truly _caught_.” She grabs his hand and presses his fingers against Eliot's curls. Instinctively, his grip tightens, and Eliot- Eliot moans around his cock and he's- he's-

He's _gone_. Shaking and curling around Eliot's head, holding onto his hair, and coming into Eliot's lovely, talented mouth.

Eliot keeps sucking for a while, lightly, until Quentin works up the strength to- to let go of his hair and haltingly push his head away. He feels Eliot's lips brush against his inner thigh and he shivers. God, he feels so good but- but-

“Hey, where's your head going?” Eliot asks him, hand against his cheek. “Don't check out on us now, little Q.”

“Um- I just-” Quentin isn't sure how he even has enough- enough blood left in his body to flush with shame, but he manages it somehow. “I just feel- uh. I feel... selfish?”

“Because you came but Margo and I haven't yet?” Eliot asks and Quentin- hesitates, but shakes his head 'no'. Eliot sits back on his heels, studying Quentin carefully. Quentin kinda wants to- to cover up, but he would have to move away from Margo to do that and he's not- he can't. “Because this was about what you want to do, and Margo and I didn't say if we were getting anything out of it?” Quentin shrugs, feeling inadequate to the task of translating the messy soup of his brain right now. Eliot tilts his head, looking unhappy. “I'm asking the wrong questions, aren't I?” He looks over, past Quentin, where Margo is. “Bambi, any insights?”

“We didn't talk enough about why you were upset earlier,” Margo decides. She's stroking through his hair, pressing little kisses against his shoulder. There's another shameful twist in his stomach at how soft she's being with him and he- he feels like he's _stealing_ from them. He opens his mouth to try to explain that but it- it's all garbage and nothing comes out. “How about we hit rewind, huh? Get yourself settled into bed and we'll join you in a minute.”

Quentin glances at Eliot, who gives him a kind smile, and so he nods and wriggles, caterpillar-like, to the center of Eliot's huge bed and buries himself in all the covers. He should go- go to his own room. But he stays and watches, eyes peeking out of the sheets, as Eliot and Margo get themselves ready for bed – make-up and crowns removed, clothes changed into outfits just as fancy but softer – and then they slid into bed with him, Eliot laying in front of him and Margo behind, resting her chin on his shoulder as she wraps an arm securely around his waist.

“A definite improvement,” Eliot says. His sleeping shirt hangs loosely in the front, showing most of his chest. His pants cling to his legs, and to the curve of his dick. “Are you feeling any better?”

Quentin twists his mouth. “I'm fine.”

“Quentin, this sort of thing works out a lot better if everyone is as honest as possible.” Eliot reaches over and brushes Quentin's hair out of his face. “If you say everything's okay when it isn't, then a scene can snowball into something fucked-up pretty quickly.”

“It's our fault for being impatient,” Margo says, her hand petting his stomach. “Rules _first_ , then fun. We didn't do it in the right order. Mea culpa, Coldwater. In fairness, there was a world-ending crisis at hand until recently, but still. We should have made the time.”

And Quentin doesn't- he doesn't agree. It's not their fault that he's- that he doesn't know this stuff. His doubt must be showing in his eyes, because Eliot leans forward and brushes the lightest possible kiss across his mouth, like a promise of a kiss, and says, “You'll just have to trust us on this for right now.”

“I do trust you,” Quentin whispers and Eliot's eyes are so warm.

“Okay, let's start from the beginning, then,” he says. He nudges closer to Quentin. “You were talking to Alice and she- she proposed to you, out of the blue?” Quentin nods. “Baby, I can't read your mind. Why was it upsetting?”

“Um.” Quentin wraps his hand around Margo's, palm to palm, interlacing their fingers. “I guess. I just wasn't sure- you know. If I- if I really had a good reason to say no. But- um. I didn't- I wasn't sure how to- you know.”

There's an angry hiss of breath from Margo behind him, but then her thumb strokes over his hand soothingly so she's not- she's not mad at _him_. Eliot's face is doing something complicated and kind of sad. Eliot reaches down, covers both Margo and Quentin's hands with one of his and that's- it feels safe and comforting in ways that Quentin is pretty sure he hasn't earned, but he'll take it.

“So, it sounds like there's a concept we should cover first,” Margo says, and her voice is the kind of forced calm he's only heard a few times before, when she's trying not to lose her temper. “It's called enthusiastic consent. It's not- it's not just for role-play and other kink. It's kinda an all-purpose model for life. It doesn't _matter_ whether or not you had a good reason for saying no, Q. What fucking matters is that you didn't wanna say yes.”

“I don't want- I don't want to disagree with you.” And Quentin is kinda glad that Margo is the one behind him instead of in front, because even if that anger of hers isn't directed _at_ him, it still burns pretty hot. “But that hasn't really been my experience? With sex?” Or- or in general, he guesses, but that's- that's another issue, probably. “Mostly it just... kinda happens?”

“Q... when you said the other day you weren't used to having sex that intense, did you mean you aren't used to having sex you actually _want_ to have?” Eliot doesn't quite look at him when he asks, focusing his eyes down on where his hand is holding onto theirs. Quentin... isn't sure how to answer the question. He enjoys the feeling of sex, generally, once he's in the middle of it. And he comes at the end, which is, like, the ultimate proof that he wants it, right? He has an odd feeling, though, that if he asks Margo and Eliot that, they'll tell him it actually isn't. The silence draws out, becomes a little awkward.

“I don't know,” Quentin says, finally, feeling defeated.

“Okay, let's talk a little more about Alice,” Margo says, brightly. “You two banged at Brakebills South. We didn't ask for the dirty details before because you were kinda mopey about her not wanting to keep things going when you got back to Brakebills proper, but it kinda sounds like we need to know, so... get to spilling, Q.”

“It was- um. We did the secrets trial and we had to be naked and it was- it was intimate, so I guess I kinda feel like it started there,” Quentin says. Eliot looks up, sharply, but now Quentin is the one avoiding _his_ eyes. “I told her about- about-” But Eliot already knows and Margo knows enough, so he takes in a deep breath and continues, “-about being hospitalized for my- uh- depression. About- about hating myself. About- um. I didn't tell her about the- the- but I guess hating myself was enough. It worked for the spell at least.” Quentin focuses on the deep open vee of Eliot's shirt, which is- which is a nice distraction. “We- uh. Got along as geese. And then Mayakovsky, which, you know, he knows his shit, magically, but um. I'm not sure it was appropriate for him to, uh, tell me and Alice to- uh, just fuck and get it over with? That was- anyway, he did this thing where we- uh. Um. We had to be foxes. And we- we got along _really_ well as foxes.” It's still a strange kind of memory, all fur and smells and unfamiliar urges he hadn't been able to control. “And then when we were human again, it just felt- we still kinda felt like foxes.” His cheeks are burning, but he makes himself continue. “We- we had a lot of sex as humans the same way we did as foxes? Which is not- I'm actually not all that into the whole- um. Ugh, doggie-style is such a terrible word. I'm not into the whole, um. Mounting someone from behind thing? Normally?”

“That _worthless_ piece of fucking slime,” Margo growls. Q shifts a little, surprised. “How the _hell_ does does a creep like that still have a fucking job? He was shady in our year, too, El, remember how I told you I felt like he was staring at my tits whenever I wasn't looking? But _at fucking least_ he didn't trick any students into having _sex_ for his- his fucking twisted pleasure. I'm gonna rip out his _goddamn_ spleen, I swear-”

“Oh, it... it wasn't- we didn't-”

“Not intentionally, honey,” Margo says, her tone softening instantly. She kisses his cheek. “But a dirty old man like that? Ew. I'm sure he was spying from somewhere. You know, there are rumors that he- Ugh, El, we _have_ to do something about him when we get back to Earth. Before, it was just a bad feeling and some gossip, but now?”

“No argument from me,” Eliot says, and his voice breaks. Quentin looks back up at him and- and seeing El so upset is... is kinda the worst thing. The last time Eliot looked like this was after- after Mike. “Q, are most of your stories about sex like that?”

“I mean. I wasn't ever a fox before,” Q says, without thinking. But it makes Eliot look less sad, just a little, so that's okay. “I guess I'm still not sure what you mean.”

“Mostly, just that... Quentin, I don't ever want to have sex with you if you aren't completely on board with it,” Eliot says. “And that's not- like, sex is not a fucking requirement for- for any other part of what we have together, okay? It's an option. For when we all want it. But if you wanna say no, for _any_ reason and I don't fucking care if it's 'good' or not, then you can say no and you aren't losing anything else. If you want, I will still cuddle the shit out of you, like I do Bambi all the time. That isn't just an after-sex thing.”

“That doesn't- seem fair?” Quentin says, cautiously. “To you?” The look in Eliot's eyes is just- just awful and Quentin doesn't know how to fix it. Maybe he should- maybe he _should_ ask them whether or not- “And I mean. If I... if I get an orgasm out of it, then I wanted it? Right?” And Eliot's face just collapses more and more and Quentin has _no clue_ how to make it better. He presses backwards, into Margo, and her grip on his hand kinda- it kinda hurts a little now. He pets at her hand and it loosens up, gentles.

“No, sweetheart,” Margo says. Very quietly. “An orgasm doesn't always mean you wanted it. Why don't you tell us about your first time, okay?”

“Um? It was-” Quentin wrinkles his nose. “Ah. I was- it was the first time that I was- um. That I- there was another patient. And we both just felt, you know. Really shitty. And she- um. Suggested sneaking off and screwing to make each other feel better.” He shrugs. “I don't think she knew it was my first time? I mean, not until- ugh. We were actually doing it, because I wasn't- you know. Good at anything.”

“When-” Eliot pauses, clears his throat. “Q, looking back, were you interested before she asked, do you think, or did you just- just feel like you didn't have a good reason to say no?” And Quentin does try to remember but it's such a- a fog of numbness and misery and it was the first time he'd been on such strong meds and the initial cocktail the doctors had tried hadn't worked on him, had made things worse in his head, so it's- it's kind of hazy. Looking back.

“I'm not sure,” he says. “Um. But I do like, you know. Having sex with you.” Eliot smiles at that, eyes crinkling up at the corners and it's such a- such a weight off Quentin's chest. Seeing Eliot smile again.

“I noticed,” Eliot says, and he's still not as happy as Quentin- as Quentin wants him to be, but it's better. “We just want to make sure it stays that way, is all.” There's a teasing sparkle in his eyes as he asks, “Earlier, you mentioned enjoying the way Margo and I dress – when's the first time you noticed liking it?”

“That's not a fair question,” Quentin says. “You- you already know.” Then, helplessly, he adds, “I mean, you were- were fucking _posing_ on the Brakebills sign, El. With your stupid cigarette and your buttoned-up vest and your tie and your- your tight pants and your fluffy hair. You _know_ you looked good.” And the way Eliot had said 'Quentin Coldwater', and it was like- like Quentin had never heard anyone say his name before. “Um. It- it took a little longer with Margo.” He turns his head so that he can see the edge of her profile. “But- uh. I liked. It was a blue tank-top thing but kind of- um. Ruffly at the waist? And it had a lot of- uh. Colors in the skirt. It was- it was- it was after I didn't get expelled. I don't really understand fashion,” he admits. “But you two make it- um. It feels like art. Sometimes. With you.”

Margo giggles and says, airily, “Oh, honey, you have set yourself up to look at some _outrageous_ outfits in the future.” And Quentin is just- so grateful they're moving onto something different. He gets- he thinks maybe he gets why it was important to talk about- about his past, but he- it isn't really a _fun_ conversational topic. “Which... hmm... brings me to a related question – how would you feel about being a fashion art project? Don't say what you think I want to hear, Q. Remember: honesty prevents fucked-up sex.”

“Like, expensive clothing as a sex thing?” Quentin asks and it's- it's baffling at first, because sure he's heard of bondage gear or whatever, but they're just talking about- about _clothes_ , but then he- yeah, he'd liked being naked while they were- were perfect. Would he still like it if he were the one all- all glamorous and made-up? He turns the idea around in his brain, but he can't quite picture how it would look. “I'm not sure? What's- would I just- I'm not pretty the way you are. I think I would just- um. Look silly. Not sexy. I don't- I really don't- um. Want you to laugh at me. While we're-”

“We wouldn't,” Eliot promises, soft and sincere. “We wouldn't dress you up to make fun of you, baby.” There's a pause, then he asks, “That little scene we played the other day, about assessing your performance, did it bother you?”

“Um. You didn't- it wasn't- I didn't feel like you were-” Quentin tries to- to express it with his hands when his words fail but- but- “I don't mind- um. You said- you said I was good.”

“Being judged turns you on when the end result is praise and approval,” Eliot says, as if checking for confirmation, and that- ugh, Eliot saying it out loud makes Quentin feel like- but Eliot doesn't sound like he thinks it's dumb. So maybe it isn't.

“So, we'll say sweet things during sex and save making fun of you for when you're being a nerd, like usual,” Margo says, as if she isn't just as fucking nerdy in her own way, the hypocrite. She giggles again when he swats her arm. “But, seriously, Q, thanks for telling us. Some people _do_ get off on being humiliated. It's useful to know it's a turn-off for you.”

“Do- do either of you?” And it seems like an impossibility that either of them could ever- but, but Eliot hesitates and then gives a tiny nod.

“Sometimes,” Eliot says, and it's _such_ a fucking bizarre thing to even think about. Eliot is- is beautiful and poised and wildly popular and- and- and everyone adores him. Eliot must see Quentin's confusion, because he laughs and presses a kiss against Quentin's temple. “Don't worry, darling, I won't ask you to do that. Bambi's good for it, if I feel like I need it.”

“It was kinda our main thing, before you,” Margo says, casually, like she isn't making his brain explode. “El can get sex from a lot of places, but he can't- can't trust some random cock not to take things too far when it comes to a mind screw.” And even the idea of a strange man _laughing_ at Eliot during sex is just- it's not really something Quentin ever wants to think about again. Margo kisses the back of his neck. “We won't play that game around you, Q, I promise. Can you think of anything else you know for sure you don't like?”

“I haven't- um.” And he's pretty sure his cheeks are red again. “I haven't really had- all that much sex. I mean- I've slept with- with a bunch of people-” and his voice is getting kinda high-pitched and defensive, so he tries to tone it down, “I don't- I guess some people like getting hurt? I'm pretty sure I don't?” Alice had accidentally gotten him pretty badly with her teeth a couple of times at Brakebills South when she'd been feeling too much like a fox. It had thrown him out of the moment both times. “I mean, not- not for real hurt.”

“Yeah, you definitely liked when I was careful with you,” Margo says, and he remembers, with a vividness that makes his cock twitch, the way she'd just- just _breathed_ on his dick for what felt like hours and it had been- had been kinda fucking amazing. “And the almost-but-not-quite pain seemed to do it for you, but I'd like a solid yes-or-no on that before I do it again.”

“Um, you mean- like- with your nails?” Quentin asks and Margo makes a little 'mmm-hmm' sound. “It was- it made me kinda tense, but you didn't- you didn't hurt me, so it was tense in- in a way that ended up being nice? You could- um. You could do it again. I would- uh. I would like that, I think. If I know it won't end up hurting.”

“And you like being pushed around,” Eliot says, and it's not a question. “But it sounds like the _reason_ you like it is because you enjoy feeling like you're... something precious, something that- Hmm. Something lovely that belongs to people who want to take care of it and keep it safe?”

Eliot's assessment makes Quentin squirm uncomfortably. He waits, trying to figure out if Eliot- if Eliot has an opinion on- if Eliot thinks it's maybe pathetic. If Quentin _does_ think that sounds- sounds true. Eliot studies him and Quentin wonders if he's- how much of an open book he is to Eliot.

“Quentin Coldwater.” Eliot cups Quentin's face. Quentin feels like he'll maybe never breathe again. “You _are_ a priceless, beautiful thing. And Margo and I would be honored if you would put yourself in our hands. Would you like that?” Quentin blinks wide-eyed at Eliot, stunningly, hopelessly turned on, and when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a breathy whimper. Eliot leans in, stops just barely shy of Quentin's lips, so Quentin pushes forward, into a kiss that is- probably too desperate, but Eliot just- just takes control of it, slides his hand down Quentin's neck so that he can move Quentin exactly the right way to make it better.

He feels- feels kinda wrung out when Eliot breaks the kiss, brushes their noses together playfully, but also- he feels like maybe he _isn't_ taking anything from them that they are- that they aren't offering.

“So, kitten-” Margo nuzzles against his neck and kitten is- well, better than puppy, at least. “We're starting to get a picture of what you'd like from us, so let's make sure you've got a good sense about what we want from you, hmm?” She licks at his neck. “I liked- I _loved_ how messy you were when you ate me out. It got everywhere and that made me feel- Mmm, like you cared more about making me happy than about how you'd look afterwards.”

“You take direction well. I like a boy who knows how to do what he's told,” Eliot says, and it's like they're competing to see who can make him blush harder. “You were _remarkably_ good at staying still, and that can be more difficult than you might think.”

“Ropes and handcuffs and bondage spells are good fun, and I think you'd enjoy them.” Margo's petting at him again, soft fingers gentle at his belly and hips. “But having the willpower to stay where you're put without anything keeping you there is, honestly, much more impressive.”

“It doesn't- it doesn't feel impressive,” Quentin offers and, in his stupid melodramatic brain, it feels like he's- he's handing them a knife to cut out his heart. “I mean, anyone can- can do okay at something if they're just- just doing what they're told.” He doesn't- the last thing he wants is to talk them out of this, but he thinks it would hurt- hurt more if they're the ones who figure this out later, so- “I guess- um. I feel like I'm just- just as mediocre at sex as I am with everything else.”

“Sex is- ah, for me, anyway, sex is a lot less about being skilled and a lot more about being compatible,” Eliot says, after a thoughtful pause. “Margo and I both enjoy giving orders; you enjoyed taking them. Margo and I like taking care of people. You liked being taken care of. We're not- not compatible in everything, but that's okay. We just have to match in _enough_ things that we're all getting what we need out of the-” there was a slight hesitation, “-relationship.”

He may never get another opening as obvious, so Quentin asks, “Are we- um. In one of those?”

“Huh.” Margo huffs out a surprised breath against his skin. “ _That's_ what bothered you about Alice's proposal. It makes sense now. You got all caught up in your head because you didn't know whether or not you were already in a relationship.”

“I wasn't sure if we were- or maybe it was-um. Just your way of being close friends.”

“Q,” Eliot says, and he runs a finger down Quentin's face, making him blink. “We told you before – we _know_ you aren't a casual sort of guy. Yeah, this is a relationship, baby. You're our boyfriend, even if Bambi will probably avoid using that actual word because it gives her hives.”

“Fuck you too,” Margo tells Eliot, but cheerfully, like she agrees. "But, yeah, unless you don't wanna be."

“Oh,” Quentin says. “Well. Okay.” And the warm pulse of happiness makes him brave enough to ask, “And I can- tell people? It's not, like, a secret?”

“Plaster it on billboards if you want,” Eliot says, like it's nothing. “We're not ashamed of you.” And Quentin just has to- _has to_ kiss him, pleased and glowing and grateful. He has to tug up Margo's hand and kiss that, too, press his mouth over her fingers and kiss them until she laughs, in that sweet way that isn't about mocking but is entirely about being happy.

“I want my mouth on you,” Quentin tells them both. “God, can I- can I, please?”

He wants them to- to lie back and just enjoy themselves, he tells them, feeling breathless over it, over how Eliot's eyes sparkle and how Margo bites her lip before they give him permission. He kisses Margo's cunt through her nightgown, licks and sucks until he can taste her through the thin fabric, until it clings to the curves. He tells her she's a fucking goddess and- and he slides up and licks at her nipples, sucks until he can feel them harden, slips his hand up along her smooth legs until he can press his fingers inside her hot, wet cunt while she sighs and tells him how good it is, what a good boy he is, and he touches her and _touches her_ until she grabs his wrist and tugs him away.

“Are you- did you?” Quentin asks.

“Mmmhmm.” And Margo pulls his hand up and kisses his thumb, delicate even when she's-. He flexes his fingers, thinks, dizzily, that he's her _boyfriend_ , and it hits him like a headrush, because she's- she's fucking glorious. He looks over at Eliot who, fuck, is hard already, and Quentin hasn't even- hasn't even touched him yet. He kisses Margo because- because she needs to know how much he- and he sucks at his fingers until they're clean and then he strokes his fingertips over her soft skin, and he kisses her some more, anywhere she wants. When she looks- when she looks soft and satisfied, he presses his mouth against her shoulder, and he- he wants to tell her how beautiful she is, but words fail him.

He isn't- he isn't patient enough to kiss Eliot's dick through his pants. He tugs them down, needing to get his mouth on Eliot's skin as quickly as possible. Eliot is- is huge and it's amazing – he gets his hands on El's dick, kisses the tip, licks it, presses his flushed warm cheek against it. He feels El's hand on his head, tentative. _Boyfriend_ , he thinks again, with a flutter deep in his belly, and maybe he shouldn't care so much. He isn't a clueless teenager touching someone else's dick for the first time, no matter how much Eliot makes him feel like that sometimes, so maybe the word shouldn't matter. But it does. It does.

Quentin opens his mouth over Eliot's cock, sucks, takes it as deep as he can without choking. Eliot's fingers are so so soft in his hair and Quentin- it's sweet, after their conversation, but he hadn't meant, he hadn't- he pulls himself off Eliot's cock, licks at it greedily, then glances up at Eliot and says, “Um. You can- um. Pull my hair. That's okay,” and dives back down, wrapping his hands around the base of Eliot's cock and sliding his mouth down until his lips meet his fingers. And Eliot does- does tug on Quentin's hair, like he had the first two times, and it's- it's wonderful.

Quentin can't handle Eliot's dick in his throat for too long, but he can do it in stolen moments, until he has to pull back, and just suck until he feels ready to try again. He pets at Eliot's thighs, his stomach, his balls, his long legs, everywhere- everywhere he can touch. He keeps going until he feels Eliot tapping his cheek lightly and he looks up, feeling overwhelmed in all the best ways.

“Little Q, you want it in your mouth or on your face?”

Quentin licks at the head of Eliot's cock while he thinks about it. Swallowing is less messy. He- he thinks maybe messy sounds nice right now, so he says, his voice sounding... sounding fucking wrecked, “Um. On- on my face.” He rubs his mouth against Eliot's dick, just to keep the taste there, then backs off a little.

“Close your eyes,” Eliot says, reaching down and wrapping his hand around Quentin's, helping Quentin jerk him off. Quentin obeys with a shudder, his lips parted. Eliot's come marks him in hot drips and spurts, on his cheek and forehead, some dribbling down his chin. “Hey, you wanna roll onto your back, show off to Bambi? You know she likes you this way.”

Quentin licks his lips, keeps his eyes shut, and lets Eliot move him so that he's lying face up on the bed. He's been able to ignore how hard he is by focusing on Margo and Eliot, but it's impossible now, when all he can think about is the two of them staring at him when he's naked and covered in Eliot's spunk. Margo coos over him, her hand not quite touching his face, and he can feel his dick jump at the sound of her voice. He wonders if- if they could make him come just by- just by talking to him. He thinks maybe they could.

“What's going on in your head right now?” Eliot asks, sounding unbearably fond, petting through Quentin's hair. “What's our boy need?”

In his head, what he wants sounds- silly and weird and stupid. But- but they've been, they've been okay with everything else, so he says, half-glad he can't open his eyes, “Maybe. Um, maybe, you could- uh.” He blushes again, a splash of heat across his cheeks. “I don't really want you to- uh. Jerk me off? Yet. But just kinda- um. Touch me?”

Eliot slides his other hand down, avoiding Quentin's face, stroking over Quentin's chest with his knuckles, almost tickling. “Like this?”

“Yeah,” Quentin sighs, relaxing into the bed. “Not- not my- everywhere else? And maybe- um. Keep talking?”

It takes- it takes a while, gentle and slow, hands touching him everywhere except his aching cock and his come-spattered face, and Eliot and Margo's voices, sometimes actually talking to him, but also just- just talking to each other, chatting and gossiping about Fillory and Brakebills. It lasts so long that he worries they'll get bored, but they don't _sound_ bored and it's... warm, comforting. When he feels- feels ready, he reaches out for the closest hand – it's Margo's, his hand encircling her wrist – and he asks, quietly, “Please?” His whole body shivers when she touches his dick, and it doesn't take long before he comes, shaky and then melting against the bed. He feels Eliot's mouth against his forehead and Eliot whispers, “Let's get you cleaned up.”

Margo leaves just for a minute, and she comes back with a warm wet cloth she wipes gently over his face and his stomach and, with a tenderness that makes his chest squeeze in on itself, his dick. She tosses the cloth onto the floor, over Eliot's objections, and rests her hand on Quentin's hip, smiling at him. “Brain a little quieter now, duckling?”

“You're a ridiculous person,” Quentin tells her. _Duckling_. Seriously. “But. Yes.” She snuggles up against him and he briefly considers getting up so that he can put literally any clothes on, but he doesn't want to move.

“Stop trying so hard, Bambi,” Eliot chides, as he slides in behind Quentin. “Q is a perfectly good nickname, all on its own.” Margo huffs, rolling her eyes, tugging at Quentin's waist to pull him a little closer. Quentin lets it happen, allows himself to get yanked and pushed and moved into place, until Margo and Eliot are both satisfied, as they continue to fondly bicker. Being naked when Eliot and Margo are back in their night clothes is- strange but kinda nice. He feels vulnerable but- but protected. He rests his head against Margo's shoulder, feels Eliot's arm reaching over him to lay on the curve of her waist. One of Eliot's long legs is slung over his hip, holding him down. His mind does feel amazingly, blissfully quiet. He knows the noise and the doubts will come back, because they always do, but he's willing to take the small victories where he can.

And, when they come back, he knows El and Margo will help him fight them.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] tell me that you mean it (i want it all or not at all)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20823176) by [exmanhater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater)




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